


i will map the stars in your eyes (and the world on your skin)

by orphan_account



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Female Character of Color, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Sappy, i am the sap master, like really sappy, working my feelings out through fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:39:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>he is the embodiment of the skies above.<br/>she is the earth below.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i will map the stars in your eyes (and the world on your skin)

She feels like he was the embodiment of space. 

He was beautiful in some ways, the way he smiled, the way his eyes lit up when he spoke, the way his hands moved, being able to curl into fists that crash into jaws, noses, eyes, and able to wrap around hands in times of need, pain, sorrow. 

In other ways, he was capable of being terrible, cruel, and unforgiving just like the skies themselves. 

He is vast and infinite yet achingly familiar. She is convinced that she could spend years with him, listening to his every word, translated into every language she knows, she would never really understand him. She is sure that no one could. Yet he feels as close as her own body, as close as her own jugular vein, pulsing life through her. It is a space, that in another life, she left for only for God. 

He was the epitome of childlike wonder. Almost always eager for a new taste, a new sight, a new language, a new answer to be uncovered, a new adventure. 

 

(“You’re my greatest adventure,” he proclaims one night. He is drunk. His blue eyes glazed over as they look up at her, his words slurring. His hand is heavy and clumsy over her hips and back. 

Behind her, a star is born. Its light bathes his face in pale blues and light pinks, picking up on the white of his smile, the gold of his hair.

She wants nothing more than to believe him.

She can’t.)

 

He considered her the embodiment of earth. 

She was soft and warm and smelled of cinnamon and lavender. Her body is taunt, and her skin is clear and dark and bright. Her voice pitched and leveled in Swahili and Arabic and Standard and Vulcan, and he reveled in every syllable that she spoke. 

She can be harsh and bitter like the deserts of her home. She can be rich and giving and kind as the rivers that she played in as a child. 

She was a home and a stable place. Unlike anything he had ever know, when the day had ended and the work was done she would be there, kind and waiting and permanent. Yet he does not remind him of his home. She is the idea of bright colors and sweltering heat and thick crowds of people. He cannot see her in his high school or the general store or a corn field. 

 

(“I never loved you.” Her usually clear eyes are brimming with tears, but her voice is hard and thick and steely. Her hand hums and shakes against his. 

The day is hot, and he focuses on the little droplets on his glass of beer rather than her face. He does not want to look at her face.

He feels embarrassed and angry and _pathetic_ for relying on one human being for all that she gave him.

But he wants nothing more to believe her. 

He can’t.)

**Author's Note:**

> weird prose ideas are my calling card.
> 
> the idea of God being as close as your jugular is a muslim thing. once i read a fic about nyota being muslim. i have adopted this headcanon as my own. you cannot stop it. 
> 
> also islamphobia is gross. don't be that dude.


End file.
